


Morning Comes Softly

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: StrikeFicExchange prompts [11]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Sweet, Valentine's Day Fic Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22679665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Strike’s thoughts the morning after the night before...
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: StrikeFicExchange prompts [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1368862
Comments: 14
Kudos: 93
Collections: Love Letters: A Cormoran Strike Valentine's Day Fest





	Morning Comes Softly

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [StrikeLoveLetters](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/StrikeLoveLetters) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Morning Comes Softly

Strike wakes slowly. The early morning sun is streaming through his skylight, warming his face as he drifts to half-consciousness. He’s aware of a deep feeling of contentment, of all being right with the world, and he resists the call of the morning. He wants to hover here, in this half-awake, half-asleep place of warmth and satisfaction and satiation, for as long as he can.

Satiation? His eyes snap open, his heart lurching. He turns his head on the pillow, and there, impossibly, amazingly, is Robin. Her red-gold hair is a gorgeous tangle across the pillow. Her soft lips are parted in sleep, her face relaxed, her eyelids fluttering a little.

He didn’t dream it, then.

He gazes at her for long minutes, drinking her in. Her lips are still a little swollen from how much he kissed her. He can see a shadow of a mark on her collarbone that he left with his teeth when the heat of the moment got too much. It looks as though it’s going to bruise, and makes him feel both vaguely guilty and oddly possessive.

His eyes rove across her. He will always know, now, that the creamy skin along the lines of her shoulders and below her collarbones is dotted with countless tiny, pale freckles. He will always know, now, how exquisite her breasts are, soft curves tipped with dusky pink nipples that he’d kissed and teased with lips and tongue until she writhed with pleasure. He will always know, now, the curve of her belly and dip of her navel. Always know the taste of her, and how she enjoys his mouth on her once he’s gently encouraged her past her shyness.

He still can’t quite believe that they got to here. He hadn’t thought it would ever happen. And he supposes he would have said, if asked how it might come about, that it would be a drunken tumble into bed, and he’d be lying here now worried she would regret it it the morning light.

But that hadn’t happened. He’d suggested the pub, as always on a Friday night, and she’d said yes, but somehow they’d never got there. He had a report to finish for their latest embezzlement case, and had got tangled up in the figures, unable to make them add up as they had the previous day. She’d had a look too, and found a few errors, and eventually they’d given up, ordered a takeaway and started the calculations again. It hadn’t taken long, and their food had still been warm when they finished, so they’d picnicked together on the flatulent sofa, satisfied with a job well done, chatting and eating. She’d plunged her chopsticks into his carton and stolen his last shred of beef, and he’d retaliated by pilfering one of her spring rolls, and one minute they were giggling like teenagers and the next they were kissing.

He smiles now, remembering the first soft touch of her lips to his. Remembering her drawing back after that momentous first kiss and just breathing “wow” and giggling again. Remembering her insistence that they tidy up their meal before, he’d assumed, she would leave. Instead she’d taken his hand and led him calmly up the stairs to his flat, his heart hammering as though it were trying to break out of his ribcage.

She’d taken the lead when he was too...not shy, exactly, but reticent, afraid to push her, worried about rushing her. She’d undressed him and herself, pulling at buttons and sliding the leather of his belt while he simply marvelled at her beauty and stroked all the skin he could reach as it was slowly exposed to his hungry gaze, soft and creamy and with so many more freckles than he could ever have imagined.

Fascination and worship had been subsumed by the heat of desire and pleasure, instinct taking over as she finally convinced him she wasn’t made of china and wouldn’t break. He would never forget the sounds she made as he drew her nipple into his mouth. He would never forget that first incredible sweet slide into her, the heat and tightness of her and her deep groan as he filled her almost making him lose control on the spot.

She stirs a little, now, and he holds his breath. He doesn’t want her to wake just yet. He wants to enjoy this for as long as he can, lying here watching her sleep. She must be tired. He knows he is. They’d managed two rounds before collapsing into slumber - he’d wished he could have gone another, but he’s nearly forty now, after all - and then another when she woke him in the deep of the night, time meaningless in the inky darkness as they explored one another with only the glow of reflected street lights coming in the skylight to make the room anything other than pitch black.

She rubs at her face with one hand now, endearingly cute, and snorts a little. She’s less asleep than she was, he can see, starting to drift to wakefulness just as he had ten minutes ago. He wonders if another round might be on the cards for this morning, and feels his body twitch hopefully beneath the covers.

Her eyelids flutter, and he knows soon she’ll be awake, that clear, blue-grey gaze on him again, and he’s pierced by a sudden, vivid memory of her gazing up at him that first time as he moved above her, a slow rhythm as he battled to keep himself from splintering apart too soon, her eyes glazed with pleasure and filled with utter trust in him. He knows he’s only her second lover - she’d admitted a few weeks ago in the Tottenham that she’d only ever slept with Matthew.

How has he got to be so lucky, that she’s chosen him? Him, Cormoran Blue Strike, with his one leg and his belly that will never be as slim as it used to be, his broken nose and scars and ridiculous untameable hair? How did this ethereal creature of delicate beauty and fierce courage choose him?

Tears well in his eyes. _Sentimental fucker,_ he chides himself. He’s being ridiculous. And for all he knows, she could be about to wake up, thank him for a good night (he’s not vain about his prowess, but he knows she enjoyed herself; he made sure of it) and go home, and that will be that.

Somehow, though, he knows that isn’t going to happen. This is the beginning. Something amazing started last night. The world has changed, shifted - just a little, but irreversibly. He can’t wait for the future which is suddenly bright and full of possibilities.

She draws a breath, and her eyes drift open. He watches her, watches the fog of sleep clear, watches her meet his gaze, sees the moment she remembers.

A soft smile curves those beautiful lips. “Good morning,” she whispers.

He grins back at her, his heart swelling with joy. He’d hoped she wouldn’t regret it, but there’s always that nagging doubt. “Good morning,” he rumbles, his voice rough from disuse. “Cup of tea?”

She grins back and stretches. “In a minute,” she murmurs, and her arm that was stretched above her head curls around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. “In a minute.”


End file.
